Rumpelstiltskin
by Swim Until You Can't See Land
Summary: Once upon a time, Miss Miller got into trouble with some bad people and turned to the consulting criminal to help her out of it. For a while, she thought she had made it to safety and her happy-ever-after. But a debt is a debt, and it's not too long before Jim Moriarty comes to collect. And he knows better than anyone that fairytales can have very Grimm endings... [Moriarty/OC]
1. Stupidity

**1**

**Stupidity**

* * *

It was disconcerting, the way he could change his demeanour at the drop of a hat. Moments ago, he had seemed nothing more than a white-collar criminal – sharply suited, well-groomed and with the pleasant air that you might expect from somebody trying to sell you something.

When he changed, however, it was as sudden as if somebody had just turned off a light.

All his pretences and niceties had been dropped, and the only expression she could read on his face now was equal parts derision and disbelief, as if he couldn't decide whether he believed her idiocy enough to be contemptuous about it. "Are you _really_ so stupid?"

* * *

_Some years earlier..._

Clare Miller had never considered herself stupid. When she was younger, she would often watch the news and be amazed at the far-fetched stories about people getting in so deep with one trouble or another and then making things even worse. She would shake her head in righteous disapproval, scoffing at the television and thinking to herself _how could anybody be so stupid_?

It wasn't until later, when she had grown up and realised that mortgages and debts and bills and loans weren't just abstract concepts, but lived realities of a working-class life, that she began to understand that you didn't necessarily have to be a stupid person to do a stupid thing.

The first time, it had happened quite by accident. She hadn't the slightest idea about the debts her father had accumulated until she had taken it upon herself to come round and clean his pigsty of a house. While he snored on the couch, an empty beer bottle on the hardwood floor below and a coupon from the bookies stuck to his cheek, she had pattered around like one of those fairytale creatures, determined to clean up the mess before he awoke.

That was when she discovered the piles of unpaid bills.

Clare – and her father – had been lucky that first time. She'd heard through a friend-of-a-friend about somebody who had some pull with the bank, who could get them to lay off and ease up on the repayments. The mysterious benefactor had a fee, of course, but it was nowhere near the scale of her father's debts, so Clare had cleared out her savings and paid it.

"It's an investment," she had told her father, kissing him on the cheek. "You can pay me back when you get back on your feet. Have you looked in the papers today? Let's try to get you some interviews lined up, alright?"

* * *

For the best part of a year, things seemed to be on the up. Then came the armed robbery charge.

"It was a toy gun!" Clare had pleaded, taking the silver-haired inspector by the arm. "He just got desperate, he'd never have hurt anybody."

DI Lestrade had shaken her off, uncomfortably but not unkindly. "Look, I'm sorry," he said. He cocked his head at her sympathetically but remained firm in a manner that reminded Clare of a strict yet patient schoolteacher. "But your dad has previous – shoplifting, petty theft. And that _toy gun_ as you call it has very recently been used in another very serious case. I don't know what he's got himself mixed up in, but trust me, this is for the best."

She'd struck lucky the second time, too. A friend-of-a-friend-of-a-friend had spoken of a contact in the Crown Prosecution Service who could help. But despite Clare's recent promotion in the textile factory, she had not yet managed to rebuild her savings. That was when she, despite having always been certain that she was not a stupid person, had taken the very stupid step of taking a loan from a less-than-scrupulous source.

At first, it seemed to have worked perfectly. The charges against her father were dropped, and he promised to keep on the straight and narrow from now on.

Lestrade had been thoroughly unimpressed, of course, and seemed convinced that there was something not-quite-right about the whole thing. But whoever was behind it knew what they were doing and how to cover their tracks, and in the end he'd had to concede defeat, at least for the time being.

Clare managed to work her way up to the role of Project Manager, and began to put money away for paying off the loan. This was precisely the aforementioned moment when she realised that mortgages and debts and bills and loans weren't just abstract concepts, but lived realities of a working-class life. It wouldn't have been so bad if only _her _mortgages and debts and bills and loans were her concern, but somewhere along the way her father had once again proved to be a disappointment, and as such she'd been forced to fend for the two of them as best she could.

* * *

The third time didn't prove to be so lucky.

For a long time, Clare had begun to suspect that the mysterious benefactors who had helped her with the bank and her father's charges had been the same person. She began to do some digging, and before long, she found that time and time again came the whispers of a name. The same name each time.

_Moriarty._

But however often the name cropped up, again and again in her searches, the man behind it proved to be elusive. Her digging led to nothing but blank denials and dead ends, and she knew that time was running out.

It hadn't surprised her when the cold barrel of a gun had been pressed into her side, silently ushering her into a waiting car. She supposed there were only so many threatening phone calls and angry letters she could ignore before the loan sharks she had borrowed from came after their money.

If she had been expecting some dingy old warehouse with puddles of damp and flickering lights, then she would have been sorely disappointed. Instead, she found herself in a spacious penthouse room, overlooking the nightscape of the city below. She was ushered onto a large couch adorned with plump cushions and found herself seated opposite a man who was regarding her with a vaguely disinterested expression upon his face.

He didn't say anything, merely lifted a cup of tea from the coffee-table in between them and sipped slowly, his eyes never leaving her. Clare had expected a loan shark to be more, well, _bad _looking. Maybe a swirling dark coat and a hard, unforgiving face. A scar or two.

But the man sitting opposite her was immaculate in every way. His suit was crisp and clean, creased only where his elbows were folded. It was a deep blue, so dark it seemed almost black. His shoes gleamed under the light and she caught sight of an expensive-looking watch glinting out from under his sleeve. His dark hair was expertly trimmed, neat and sharp around the ears and slicked back at the forehead. But it was his eyes that unsettled her the most. Brown eyes, but not the warm, friendly kind. The kind that looked like they were all pupil and no iris – almost black – and impossible to read.

She realised that he had still not said a word, and started to wonder if he had any intention of speaking at all, or if he was content to sit there and observe her, like a hawk might observe its prey. After a few minutes of holding her tongue, the silence became too stifling.

"Are you the...?" she broke off, unsure how to phrase the question. Did loan sharks _like_ being called loan sharks? She tried again. "Look, I know it's late. I don't have your money right now, but I will get it as soon as possible. I could start making payments now, small ones, and I promise it won't be long before, well..."

The man raised an eyebrow and Clare felt her cheeks flush. Did she _really_ just offer to pay her loan shark in monthly instalments?

He looked offended. "Me? A loan shark?" He pouted his lips and tutted disapprovingly. "No, no, no, Miss Miller. You have it all wrong. I'm the guy that's going to _help_ you. Think of me as the hero, sweeping in to save the day!"

His laugh unsettled her for reasons she could not quite explain but were lodged somewhere in the pit of her stomach and the back of her neck.

"Who are you?"

That eyebrow again, as if she were a child at school who could not answer a simple problem. "Now _that_ you should be able to tell me. It's you who has been doing the digging around. Asking questions. _Investigating_." The last word was said with a smirk on his lips, and Clare was sure he as mocking her.

A sudden twinge of fear gripped her stomach. "I don't know anything, really I don't. I'm just in a bit of debt and looking for some help getting out of it."

"Well, _no_, that was the first time," the man said, frowning. "And the second time was when daddy got himself charged with armed robbery. This is number three. And I'm sorry to break the bad news to you, darlin' – " he sucked in a breath of air " - but three strikes and you're out."

"That was you?"

"That was me."

"You're..." Clare hesitated, not sure if she should say the name out loud.

"Jim Moriarty." He flashed a grin, but there was no warmth in the smile. It seemed more like a wolf bearing its teeth. "Oh, don't look so disappointed now. After all, you did go to a lot of effort to try to find me."

Clare nodded. "And now, you've found me."

"I did, didn't I?" He looked pleased with himself. "I had to, really. I don't like it when people try to interfere in my business. It gets...messy."

The look of mock-regret on his face was enough to convince Clare that she was in over her head. "I'm not trying to interfere, I swear. I was just looking for help to get this loan shark off my back. I don't know anything else. I don't want to know anything else. I'll keep quiet."

"You want help in getting a loan shark off your back because you can't pay the loan shark," Moriarty said, frowning. "But if you can't pay the loan shark the chances are you can't pay me either which makes it seem, Miss Miller, that you're wasting my time and I really – " he chuckled " - _really_ don't like people wasting my time."

"I can pay you," Clare said. "Please, I just need some time. I wouldn't be asking if I wasn't desperate." She could feel her throat tightening, and willed herself to keep her composure. "It's my dad. He's run up all these bills since he lost his job and gambled his money away, and I just took the loan to try to look after him. He's all I have."

"Oh." Something in his face changed. His brow knit together in concern, and he nodded his head slightly, as if in understanding. "It's for your dad." He nodded his head again, looking down at the floor and then back at Clare, a surprising look of tenderness on his face. "That's...touching, it really is. Look, why don't we agree to waive the money, just this once?"

She blinked back tears. "Really? You'd do that?"

He nodded at her, grinning. "Of course." Then as suddenly as it had appeared, the grin was gone. "Of course not!" The roar of his voice echoed off the walls, and the friendly, jovial expression on his face was replaced with one of pure, unbridled fury.

It was disconcerting, the way he could change his demeanour at the drop of a hat. Moments ago, he had seemed nothing more than a white-collar criminal – sharply suited, well-groomed and with the pleasant air that you might expect from somebody trying to sell you something.

When he changed, however, it was as sudden as if somebody had just turned off a light.

All his pretences and niceties had been dropped, and the only expression she could read on his face now was equal parts derision and disbelief, as if he couldn't decide whether he believed her idiocy enough to be contemptuous about it. "Are you _really_ so stupid?"

"I...I..."

"No, don't answer that." He closed his eyes, as if physically pained. "Anything you say is only going to confirm it." He sighed, and opened his eyes again. "Here's what's going to happen. I'm going to help you, and then you're going to help me."

"I can get you the money, it will just take some – "

"No, no, no," he said, wrinkling his nose. "Forget about the money. And don't interrupt me again. You're beginning to bore me and when I get bored it takes a lot of time to get the bloodstains out the carpet." He smiled again, as if having remarked on something as innocent as the weather. "I have this thing about getting my hands dirty. I don't like to do it. I like to get other people to do it for me. Now, there's someone I might need _taken care of_ in the future. And if that happens to come to pass – and let's face it, it probably will – you're going to do it for me."

Clare couldn't move her mouth, even if she'd had the courage to try to speak.

"Oh, and by 'taken care of' I mean 'killed,' in case that wasn't clear," Moriarty added.

She shook her head, feeling something uncomfortably like bile at the back of her throat. "I'm not going to kill anyone for you."

He screwed up the corner of his mouth, giving her a patronising nod. "Yeeesss, yes you are. Because you know what happens if you don't, don't you?" He widened his eyes, sticking his neck out towards her. "Time to say bye-bye to daddy!"

"Why would you ask me to do this? What use could I possibly be to you?"

Moriarty shrugged, an expression of utter disinterest on his face now. "Nothing special. Just one small part of the great game, sweetheart." He checked his watch. "Well, I'll let you get off now. Don't worry about the loan sharks, they won't be bothering you."

Clare rose to her feet, feeling her legs shake beneath her. "That's it? You're just going to let me go? You're not going to tell me who you want me to kill. How? When?"

"All in good time," he said, waving a hand at her dismissively. "There's no rush."

She turned away, ready to walk out of there as fast as she could and hope that she would wake up from this nightmare soon. Before the doors of the lift shut behind her, she heard one last farewell reach her ears in a childlike, singsong voice.

"Oh, and don't go anywhere, Miss Miller. I'll be seeing you sooooon!"

* * *

**This is my first forage into Sherlock fanfiction, so hope it gets off to a good start!**

**Given Moriarty's fondness for Grimm's fairytales, this is going to be loosely based on Rumpelstiltskin, or at least take elements from it, some of which you might have noticed already. **

**I've listed the pairing as Moriarty/OC, but this isn't exactly a romance in the traditional sense, so if you're expecting a story where Moriarty discovers he has a heart of gold and runs off into the sunset with his true love, you might want to skip this one. It is based on a Grimm fairytale, after all!**

**Any comments, feedback and reviews are much appreciated, please leave your thoughts! I will always return the favour for any reviews left.**

**Thanks for reading.**


	2. Disguise

**2**

**Disguise**

* * *

Weeks passed, but Clare heard no more from Moriarty. Whatever his methods were for dealing with the loan sharks – and she didn't have to extend her imagination too far to consider them – he must have done a good job, for the threatening letters and voiceless phonecalls stopped altogether.

For a time, it was almost as though she could pretend that her meeting with Moriarty had never happened, that she had pulled through on her own and could finally move on with her life. In the daylight, she went about her business as usual. She'd work hard at the factory and then go home, occasionally dropping in on her father to make sure he was coping.

It was when night fell that the memories resurfaced.

As soon as she turned out the bedroom light and tried to fall asleep, every sense in her body became hyper-alert. Every creak of the floorboards, every sound from the street below seemed amplified. She imagined him opening her door and creeping into her room. No, not creeping. That hadn't seemed to be his style. He would walk in with an air of confidence, one foot in front of the other, a slight swagger and a smile. A pleasant-looking man. A friendly man. But a man who would kill her without a second thought.

"You didn't think I'd forgotten about you, did you, Miss Miller?"

Most days, she woke up with a sheen of sweat across her forehead. The sun would light up the room and she would breathe deeply, trying to calm her nervous body and forget about the monster under her bed that would invade her dreams and turn them into nightmares.

"He's not here," she said to herself.

She started to believe it. Over time, the shadowy spectres that seemed to skulk in the darkness slowly disappeared. She stopped seeing him in every businessman walking down the street in a pristine suit. She stopped jumping every time she heard a sudden noise. He had forgotten about her. He must have. After all, what use could she possibly be to him? She couldn't kill anyone, he knew that. He just wanted to scare her, to show that he was the one in control. And then he had cut her loose.

It was over. She could move on.

Saturday morning was shopping day, so she fetched her bags from the cupboard and headed down the street to the local supermarket. The hustle bustle of people in the shop made her feel safe. Being lost in the crowd, surrounded by hundreds of witnesses. She was invisible, she was anonymous. Everybody just walked past each other, swerving and stepping one way and another to avoid bumping into each other, unnoticed, unobserving.

She was in the milk aisle when things took a turn for the worse. Picking up a half-pint, she wheeled around and bumped into somebody. The milk fell from her hand and burst open on the floor, splattering her own shoes as well as a pair of frayed trainers that must have belonged to the person she had bumped into.

"I'm so sorry!" she said, bending down to pick up the carton. "I wasn't looking where I was going, I didn't see you."

"No, it was my fault. I didn't notice you either," a voice said from above her. Another London accent, unremarkable. Just another invisible person passing through the busy supermarket. One of a hundred just the same. Londoner. Busy. Absent-minded. Apologetic.

She straightened up just as he bent down to mop at the mess with some tissues. He was wearing a tight-fitting grey t-shirt and she blushed as she couldn't help but notice his rather bright underwear peeking out from his trousers. Not knowing quite where to look, she shifted uncomfortably from one foot to the other until he straightened up again.

"Well, I think I got the most of it," he said with a grin.

Her heart stopped.

It couldn't be.

His voice...it was one of those ten-a-penny London accents that you heard around you every day. In the supermarket, on the tube, on the street. And he was dressed in a t-shirt which was at least one size too small for him. Or was it because he was slouching, his body seeming to fold inward? His hair was softer, more modern-looking. He was even wearing a necklace. No, it couldn't be. This was just some unfortunate man who slightly resembled the figure in her nightmares. Her mind was playing tricks on her again. She was seeing him everywhere.

"I'm Jim, by the way," he added. "Hi."

Clare couldn't breathe.

He frowned, looking at the floor and then back up at her again. "It's just spilt milk. No use crying over it."

"What do you want?" Her words came out stronger than she felt. She had been completely and utterly duped. All this time, thinking she had been blending in and going unnoticed, he had been doing the same. Hiding in plain sight. Just another young Londoner with a cheeky smile and a bad fashion sense. It was the perfect disguise.

"No, no. Not yet. You've got some shopping to finish." He picked up a replacement milk carton for the one she had dropped and placed it in her trolley. "Oh, look! Yoghurt. Let's have some of that, too."

She wandered up and down the aisles in a daze, while _Jim_ chatted away about the most normal, mundane things, as if he were almost oblivious to her lack of response. Did she know that those cranberries had more sugar in them than the chocolate they'd just passed? Why did she not like the kind of orange juice that has bits in it? Was there really so much difference between the twenty different kinds of cheese sauce on offer?

"And what's that at the bottom there? Pate?" He screwed up his face. "A bit boring, isn't it? If you're going to do it, do it right. What you need is some foie gras."

"Foie gras is banned in this country," Clare said, gritting her teeth.

"Only the production of it," he corrected. "And even if it was, it's not as though a little thing like the law has ever been known to stop me getting what I want, has it?"

Clare turned to look at him. It was the first time since they bumped into each other that he had acknowledged that _Jim_ was merely a façade, a character he was playing. Underneath that perfectly-crafted disguise was Moriarty, a man who she supposed would never accompany her around a supermarket unless he had a point to make.

"Do you know how they make it? Foie gras?"

"I don't want to – "

"They force-feed those poor ducks and poor geese," he said, cutting her off. "Stick a big tube down their throats and pump them full of grain. Then their liver swells up. Like a balloon." He giggled, and then forced himself to look regretful. "Very sad, of course. But very tasty. You should try it sometime."

"Stop it." She shivered, feeling a tight knot in the pit of her stomach.

"Anyway, the point I'm trying to make is..." he paused, considering for a second. "Well, I'm not really trying to make a point. I'm trying to intimidate you." He smiled. "Tell me, is it working?"

Clare looked at him. A normal looking man, with dark eyes and a smirk on his lips. An accent like one she heard every day. A man who seemed harmless. But yes, she was intimidated. She remembered the coldness in his eyes, the rage in his voice when he flipped from jovial to hostile in the blink of an eye. Whatever pleasantry he was demonstrating now, she could not forget what lay underneath. "What do you want?" she asked.

He sighed. "I suppose I should tell you. It's probably time to get the wheels in motion. I want you to meet my girlfriend."

Clare was taken aback. Whatever she had been expecting, it was not this. She chose her words carefully, well-aware that one careless word or implication could mean her death. "You...have a girlfriend?"

He rolled his eyes. "_I _don't have a girlfriend. Jim has a girlfriend. Well, it's in the early stages. But it's really _blossoming_." He screwed his face up in mock-delight before he dropped the façade and replaced it with an expression of disgust. "No, it's insipid and tedious and if I'm really being honest, a real test of my willpower not to just kill her on the spot. But that doesn't concern you. What concerns you is that you, my dear, are going to befriend her."

"You want me to befriend your..._Jim's_ girlfriend?" Clare shook her head. "Why?"

"Motive," he said, offhandedly. "Sure, you _could _just be some tired factory worker who has been under too much pressure at work and has an alcoholic gambler father who she needs to look after so she snaps and kills the poor innocent girl that works at the morgue, but then people might ask questions. I don't want them to ask questions. It's far better being the jealous girlfriend who kills the ex-girlfriend in a spate of rage. It's emotional. It's sentimental. People like that. People like things that are boringly obvious." He almost looked disappointed.

"I'm not your girlfriend."

"You mean it's over so soon? I'm wounded, I really am." He shrugged. "They don't know that."

"Who are 'they?'"

"Family members, police officers, the people interested in that kind of thing. People that need convincing."

"You..." Clare could barely speak. "You want me to befriend a girl just so there will be less questions asked when I kill her? You're insane."

Moriarty grinned. _Jim _had definitely disappeared now. He stood a little straighter, carried himself with more presence. His clothes suddenly seemed ridiculous and out-of-place. Even the accent was beginning to slip. "I'm _bored_."

"You're bored? And this amuses you, does it? Playing God with people's lives?"

He closed his eyes and frowned, shaking his head from side to side. "Wrong. So wrong. I'm not playing God, I'm playing chess." He opened his eyes again and looked at her. "And like I said before, you're just a pawn in this game. A means to an end. Please don't go getting grand ideas that this is all about you. It's really not."

"Then who is it about? The girlfriend?"

He shook his head. "Boring."

"I'm not going to help you. I'm not going to befriend her and I'm definitely not going to kill her. I won't have any part in this."

"Boring," he repeated, cranking up the falsetto in his voice. "And predictable. So very predictable. Oh look, this checkout is free."

He ushered her forward, and Clare suddenly became aware of how close he was. She could almost feel his movements in the small distance between them, and she felt an acute realisation that all it would take was a small movement on his part to do her some serious damage. She doubted he would do so in a crowded supermarket, especially given his own proclamation about hating to get his hands dirty, but she couldn't be sure. Not with him.

Eventually, they made their way out of the shop and onto the street. Out here, Clare felt even more trapped than ever. Despite being out in the open, she felt the world constrict around her and knew that even if she had the courage – or stupidity – to run, she would find her feet frozen to the pavement below. There was something about Moriarty that seemed to paralyse her, a deep fear that rendered her powerless and incapable.

Moriarty checked his watch. Or rather, _Jim's_ watch. Somehow the rubber strap with the digital dial seemed out of place on his wrist. "Hmm, the football will be starting in a couple of hours. Wonder if daddy's coupon will come in today. Then again, I _did_ see the teams he picked, and I don't think it looks good."

"How did you – "

"His laptop broke. Luckily, Jim works in IT." He grinned. "Told him it was free-of-charge, his daughter is a friend."

Clare swallowed. "Please, he has nothing to do with this. Just leave him out of it."

Moriarty looked confused. "No. No, he has _everything_ to do with this." His voice dropped, and all traces of feigned-amiability were gone. "What you don't seem to understand is that I _own _you. I own both of you. I know what kind of beer daddy-dearest drinks. I know that when he falls asleep on the couch and wakes up the next morning, the first thing he'll reach for is the unfinished bottle from the night before. I know where he stashes the money you give him that's meant for food. I know where all the shreds of those ripped-up gambling papers are. I know _everything_."

"And if I don't do what you say – "

"The chance of him taking a drunken tumble down the stairs and breaking his neck dramatically increases, yes."

"There must be something else I can do, anything!" she said, desperation choking her every word. "You can't make me do this. Please."

"I'm not _making _you do anything," he said, shrugging. "I'm giving you a choice."

"You're blackmailing me."

"I'm _threatening_ you."

Clare paused for a moment, trying to think of a way out. Any way out. Something that would make this whole mess go away. "What if she doesn't want to be friends with me?"

"She will. She works in a morgue, she doesn't have many friends." He looked at her, raising an eyebrow. "I'm sure you're not considering trying to deliberately sabotage this. Because if you are, I should warn you, it might take a considerable toll on your father's health."

She let out the breath she had been holding. "I don't have a choice then."

He just smiled. "She's meant to be meeting Jim at the Fox tonight. Jim is going to have an IT emergency and cancel at the last minute. She'll be feeling all _worried _and _insecure_ and could probably use somebody to reassure her and listen to all her ordinary little problems."

"And that's where I come in."

"Good, you're keeping up."

"And then what? How long do I keep this up for before you tell me you need rid of her? What if she's nice? What if I like her?"

"So many questions. So boring," Moriarty said. "All you need to know is what I tell you."

Clare felt as though she was on the edge of a cliff. If she didn't jump, then something much more terrible would come along to push her. What was worse – waiting for the inevitable to happen or taking the step yourself before it got the chance?

She took a breath. "What's her name?"

A small, triumphant smile played out over Moriarty face. "Molly," he said. "Molly Hooper."

* * *

**Thanks to everybody who has followed or favourited so far, especially ****_Soul's Companion_**** for leaving my first review and who is writing a very good Moriarty/OC story called 'Westwood Blue.'**

**Really enjoyed writing this chapter, especially after having watched 'His Last Vow.' Anybody else really, really pleased to see him back?**

**I really appreciate people taking the time to leave their thoughts, and I will always return a review to anybody that leaves one.**

**Thanks for reading.**


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